As the sign on the door says
printed in bright green crayon on cardboard
YOU ARE HERE
SOBRIETY POWWOW
EVERYBODY WELCOME
and here you are indeed
in 1979, in Onigamiising
in a Methodist church social hall
with your father, who
hearing the drum and singing, brightens
and your three little girls
in matching denim bib overalls and ironed, ruffled blouses,
here you are
YOU ARE HERE
squinting at an unclear world from behind thick lenses
(the world will focus in time, but how can you know this,
twenty-nine-year-old lost and astigmatic self?)
holding your smallest child’s hand and your father’s arm
at a sobriety celebration gathering
under institutional fluorescent light fixtures
that on this overcast afternoon
mimic the paleness of the sun glowing through clouds.
As there is beauty
in the pallid light of sun shining through clouds
so there is beauty
in the touching mimicry of the fluorescent lights
in the feast of Indian hot dogs, wild rice, jello, cake,
powdered orange drink and coffee coffee coffee
in the dancers, some in street clothes
some in Indian clothes (as we called them in 1979)
all there in honor of the sobriety warriors
and the warriors, themselves, proud
modest battle-scarred ogichidaa spirits
a little embarrassed by the attention
and the old man who called to my dad
“Jerry LeGarde!”
then spoke to him in Indian
(my dad answered and they conversed,
to my surprise; I didn’t know he could do that
and perhaps this is as long and familiar a story
to you as it is to me; if not I will explain sometime)
and the lineup for the food, with the Elders eating first
and Grand Entry, the prayers, the Veterans song
and the m.c. who made everybody laugh
after a really good song,
so good that everybody in the room got up to dance.
“That was an old traditional song of our people
called ‘When I Get My Payment’!”
he announced into the mic,
Indianishly (as we said in 1979)
tempering (as we still do)
extremes of happiness sadness
light darkness the ugly and the beautiful
and the inevitably increasing clarity that each day brings
with a joke.
Lost and astigmatic twenty-nine-year-old self,
the directions you sought were printed in bright green crayon
on cardboard taped to the doors of a church social hall
YOU ARE HERE
SOBRIETY POWWOW
EVERYBODY WELCOME
There you were
and here you are.